100 Paper Petals
by clockwork starlight
Summary: ShunsuiNanao LJ themes, as presented by the clockwork. Oneshot collection. ShunNao.
1. and then there is you

Clockwork is... a bad person. But we knew that. And she doesn't own much, believe me. Only borrowing Bleach for a little while, promise I'll return it. So here's the shunsui-nanao LJ community 100 themes as presented by clockwork starlight. They will all be in some form of disarray. Because organizational skills are so not going on my resume. D'ya get the feeling this is the start of something terrifying?

* * *

Theme 67: And then there is you 

Ise Nanao is a list person. It's not that surprising, is it? If something bothers her, if there is something she needed to do, if there is something interesting happening five meters away, she has to catalogue, index and cross reference it in her head.

And certainly, Captain Kyoraku Shunsui takes up most of that internal database. There is no point in numbering his faults, the peeve ranking changes from hour to hour.

_There's the drinking._ The endless consumption of poison. (She realizes studies from the living world do not usually apply to entities that have moved beyond, but if alcohol retains the ability to cause inebriation, isn't it better to be safe rather than sorry?) It makes him act like more of a fool than usual. What little restraint he has goes out the window, and she is hard pressed to keep him somewhere near the boundaries of decorum. She has filed the fact that the smell of sake tickles her nose (and makes her more aware of the underlying scent of masculinity in his presence) as number 12 under 'Stupid, Useless Information That Will Never, Ever Come To Light If I Have To Give Myself Amnesia With My Own Book To Keep It That Way'. It's above her silent agreement with Rangiku that Hitsugaya is going to grow up and be a lady killer, and below her private concession to liking confetti candy as much as Kusajishi-fukutaichou.

_There's the refusal to do anything resembling productivity. _Yes, it is boring, and sometimes even she wants to 'accidentally' knock a jar of sake over the piles of paperwork littering her desk just so she could say sorry and get the hell out, but she never does. She acknowledges the responsibilities that come with her position, which is something she can only say of her captain once in a blue moon. He maintains he is a pacifist, not a pencil pusher, but that he might change his mind, as no one ever hounds Zaraki-taichou about accounts. If he even thinks about spiking his hair, she will not hesitate to pound his head into the ground. For the sake of Seireitei of course. They don't need another bloodthirsty maniac running around, especially not one with bankai and a drinking problem.

_And then there is…_

"Cute, cute Nanao-chan?"

"Yes, Kyoraku-taichou?" She expects him to request she refill his cup, and then proceed to coo over how lucky he is to have his lovely lieutenant play geisha for him.

"Against my will, Eighth Division has been ordered to help eliminate the ryoka problem. There's just one thing…"

_And then there is you._

Yes, it is surprising that the intruders have managed to escape capture this long, even more surprising that they are fighting shinigami and still remaining elusive. Certainly it is alarming that _captains_ are allowed to use their bankai if necessary to take care of the problem. But for him to ask that she… That is the most dismaying thing she has to deal with right now. But she can't say 'no', not when those eyes have dimmed their twinkle for her, when her captain is looking at her so somberly, so seriously for such a… That's just it, isn't it? She can't say 'No, Kyoraku-taichou, I would rather kiss Hitsugaya-taichou and suffer through the frostbite than that', because she will do it, and she knows she won't be locking lips with Rangiku's boy any time ever.

She'll do it, she said she would, and she always keeps her word, especially since she promised _him_. Yes, she'll do it, but he won't be focusing the intense velvet of his gaze on her when she does, so she'll be free to mix in marbles to throw at him, or whatever other mischief she can concoct for her revenge.

_What a waste of foliage,_ she thinks to herself as she unsheathes a pair of stilettos. It's his fault, his fault he's so ridiculous, his fault she doesn't mind, his fault she caves so easily. She leaps into the air. The haori, the hat, that invasively intimate way of addressing her, the secret pleasure she keeps, knowing that she at least, gets to hear those words day in and day out. She wields the blades with surgical precision, shattering each bloom through its center. It's for him though, so she doesn't think about how many lovesick girls will find all the blossoms here already plucked, petals counted, judgment withheld. She watches dispassionately as members of her division run about catching the scarlet slivers in sheets before dumping them in the excessively large basket he has provided her. It may be petty, but if she has to do this ridiculous thing for _him_, it's only fair his division make fools of themselves for _her_.

There is a mound of blush red petals lying in the basket. _Not enough_, she thinks. Even if it is an asinine assignment, it is an assignment, and Ise Nanao always exceeds expectations. She leaps into the air again, keeping count of how many flowers fracture by her blades. It's because she's a list person, she likes knowing exactly, precisely, with no error. It is most assuredly _not_ because her mind can't stop reciting _'he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me' _with each stroke.


	2. truth does not blush

Tada. yeah okay done now. blanket disclaimer no jutsu!

* * *

Theme 92: truth does not blush 

Truth is More of a Stranger than Fiction

-Mark Twain

"Kyoraku-taichou, you've had too much to drink."

"Taichou, there's more paperwork for you to finish."

"It seems you've slept the day away again, sir."

"No, sir, I really don't have any interest in going with you and Matsumoto-fukutaichou after work. I have duties to the Shinigami Women's Association."

"Kyoraku-taichou, your haori is on fire."

Nanao-chan could be so cold when delivering the stark truths of everyday routine, he thought to himself as his lieutenant removed the pipe that had fallen from a slack hand. Bald, unadorned truths fells so easily from her mouth, that he was sure the only thing colder than her demeanor was the marble curve of her cheek. One pale hand batted the top of his head while the other stayed him from carelessly dumping the contents of his cup on the smoldering cloth.

"I don't think that would have helped, sir," she deadpanned, splashing her glass of water over the charring material. Surely she didn't need to have poured _all_ of it on him. She was probably just making sure. Yes, that was it. She was so cute when she hid her concern behind such heartless antics.

"Sorry, sorry, Nanao-chan. Your beauty took up all of my attention." His line was, as usual, delivered flawlessly. Truth didn't blush, he reflected, but he delighted in proving that Nanao did.


	3. fly away in the morning

I own very little. And discipline is one of those things not currently in my possession. I _could _have been doing math. But there's not a lot of fun in that.

* * *

Theme 9: fly away in the morning

Dawn is Breaking

Dreams are strange things. Sometimes they linger like a lover's caress over the senses, a whisper of flavor, a hint of scent, a glimpse of noise, the suggestion of color in the dark of eyelids and lashes. Sometimes they hover just beyond consciousness, laughing at blind grasping hands fumbling to keep possession of the intangible coils of dreaming sleep. Sometimes they just fly away in the morning, evaporating in the sun's rays, as if they had never been there, leaving a fleeting confusion, the question of whether last night even held dreams, or if oblivion simply stole away night's very existence.

Nanao prefers to think she doesn't dream. Once she admits that she dreams, it becomes less of a challenge to pry out of her what she dreams about. And she is not about to tell anyone, even herself, that for her, dreams taste of sake, smell like freshly mixed ink, sound like rustling fabric and paper, fill her mind's eye with images of flowers and gentle smiles and kind eyes.

She prefers the mornings when she wakes up and wonders why it feels like she's only just closed her eyes. On those mornings, she doesn't need to hide the tinge of red tracing her cheeks behind the impact of her tome, because there's no blush to keep a secret. There is no haunting feeling of lost sensations, no sense of void, no acute reminder of how it feels to have his presence overflow into her. No more than usual.

The dreams only make it worse, blurring the lines of what is real and what feels real. In dreams, what feels real are the blurred lines between them, boundaries erased until there is no space, no difference between captain and vice captain, between her and him, between lover and beloved.

Outside the tenuous fantasies, reality must slowly be regained between the unfolding of her glasses and the first unread document of the day. She must redraw the lines, the limits she has set, blacker and darker than before, in the hope that she will not cross them. She can't bring herself to hate the shadows of night's dreaming, the warmth that leaks into her eyes. Where else would she let herself believe the heartless intimacies he flings at her so casually?

And so is her Pretense

Nanao first thing in the morning is like dallying in the gardens to watch the new asagao unfurl from their protective slumber. The morning glory flower blooms as the dawn dwindles, and dies with the high sun of noon. Few realize that the plant bears a new blossom each day, a new face to greet the passage of time. The casual observer may not realize the difference between yesterday's aspect and today's, but Shunsui would tell him otherwise. He's been watching for a long time now, and he can see the little indications that hint to a Nanao that is more than the mask she would have them all believe. Shunsui would also have to ask what a casual observer thought he was doing, observing his Nanao casually, but that's another discourse entirely; one without a florid metaphor, and one he wouldn't put nearly so much effort in describing.


	4. and we all age

I think we know how this works. I don't claim anything of Bleach but that is rocks, and I like to borrow things. Mildly klepto, I'll put them back where they were, I promise.

* * *

Theme 10: and we all age

Were but the heart so fickle as the time.

The seasons change, but they aren't anything _but_ the mark of time passing. They have no purpose, only changing the screen behind which we hide our naked hearts, dressing them colored silk to match meaningless attitudes. Spring is only for flowers, there is no need to plant, to tear up the soil and create something for the future. Only a few here need such sustenance, and fewer still have the promise of a future, a destination that will change as they choose the paths they walk. Summers are nothing but heat that can not _really _kill; they waste away, blurs of distorted air and doing nothing at all. Autumn brings cool breezes and falling leaves, and the sense of something that has gone unfulfilled. Winter chills bite in mocking jest, blunt teeth and sheathed claws, breathing icy patterns into the air.

Perhaps it _was_ the fault of the time that refused to pass. There is only so long you can live through so many seasons before realizing you are walking in circles, not advancing on a spiraling ascent.

No older really, and no wiser. Otherwise she wouldn't be contemplating the gentle caress of spring scented zephyrs and becoming depressed. She wouldn't be wondering what it would be like to be alive again, to be able to _do_ things that might not occur tomorrow. She wouldn't be wondering if Kyoraku-taichou ever got tired of being who he was. He'd been that way as long as she could remember, as long as anyone could remember, and surely it must take a great deal of effort, something rarely ascribed to him.

We live on time neither borrowed nor our own, but it is all we have. And we all age, changing from day to day, like the seasons that only progress but do not mature. Springs do not change what we reap in the fall; winters do not make us appreciate summers. But I supposed at least a few things must change with time, even time as stagnant as ours.

-----

"Nanao-chan, you're not listening to me! Are you thinking naughty thoughts?"

"Kyoraku-taichou only said I must not become bogged down by the ever constant work, not that I should listen to him after he went through all the trouble of removing my books, desk, inkset and assignments." She kept her eyes firmly fixed on the view beyond the window. She would never have imagined she would be so tart to any captain, once. She would never have imagined any captain being so brazen either, though.

"Nanao is so cruel to me!" The whine was not as grating as it had been.

"Would you take another lieutenant?" They both knew the answer to that.

"Now you're being cruel _and_ malicious. As if I would ever surrender my quest to win your heart. I shall carry on my lonesome ordeals, knowing that the pains and labors will be mere nothings after…"

She stopped paying attention, his voice becoming a distantly pleasant murmur. At least some people don't change. It makes it easier to change oneself for them.


	5. songbird's lament

Feeling lazy... we both know what's supposed to go here, and we both know it's true.

* * *

Theme 28. songbird's lament 

The Emperor's Monsters_  
There is a tale, an old, old tale for sure, but I am, after all, an old, old man. The Emperor and the Nightingale I think it's called now. It is a tale of life and perfection and longing.  
No, no monsters. No violence. This is a bedtime story kind of tale. Soothing. The word is soothing, not boring. You're too young to understand the difference then. Well the only other person to tell you a story is- Now, where was I?  
Once upon a time, there was a great Emperor, who possessed many wonderful things. A beautiful palace, many beautiful treasures, many beautiful women...  
And many monsters to play with. Alright.  
But his most prized treasure was his magnificent garden. In it grew many rare plants, exotic flowers, exotic women, and a monster pit for when he felt like playing with several of them at once. Every emperor has one. There were dangerous animals and beautiful animals and monster animals in his garden, all of which had been put there himself. But living in the trees that were not quite so rare as the others, was a small grey nightingale who had no idea she was living in a place so grand as the Emperor's garden. She was too small to be eaten by the monsters, who had their own servants to bring them monsterfood, and some to be monsterfood on special occasions. People from far and wide came to see the Emperor's treasures, and many more came to see his gardens.  
Not so many came to see his monsters.  
And while they wandered through the sweet scented blooms as they tried very hard not to see the monsters and even harder for the monsters not to see them, they would hear the song of the nightingale, which was even more beautiful than all the women and flowers and monsters belonging to the Emperor. And they praised the gardens, and wrote books about them, and the wondrous song of the nightingale was always the thing they admired the most. Only a little more than the monsters.  
Eventually the Emperor read one of the many, many books praising his gardens and his monsters and his women. But he was surprised to find so many words about the nightingale he didn't know he had. Especially surprised to see that she had more words than his monsters.  
He had her brought to the court so everyone could hear the song that was more charming than his monsters and gardens and women. And the bird's song brought tears to his eyes, and all his courtiers' eyes and all his ladies' eyes and all his monsters' eyes. And so he kept her in the court, and asked her to sing for them always because she was a remarkable bird with an even more remarkable voice. And made his monsters promise not to eat her.  
One day the Emperor received a gift, a mechanical nightingale jeweled with diamonds and amethysts that sung as sweetly as the little grey feathered one. And the Emperor was delighted, so delighted he stopped telling his monsters bedtime stories so he could hear it sing. And then he had the two nightingales sing together. Which didn't work very well for the feathered bird sang whatever was in her heart, but the clockwork bird only knew how to sing waltzes. And the music master decided that the jeweled bird was superior because he could dissect her song and name all the parts of it and clearly it was composed by a master musician. And since the music master decided, the women decided, and the people decided, and the monsters decided, and so the Emperor decided, that the music master had to be right. The little grey nightingale didn't decide anything in particular that day, except that the Emperor's monsters were truly something else._

"Kyoraku-taichou, she's asleep now, thank you." Nanao picks up the Eleventh's lieutenant carefully, like the little girl might break if breathed upon wrong. Or worse yet, wake up.  
"Oh but I hadn't finished. You should always let stories spin to their ends."  
"She'd hurt herself sleeping like that too long." She leaves the room to tuck the slumbering monster princess away, light steps as perfect and precise as a mechanical nightingale. If there had been more sake in it, he might have been telling the story of his life this night. Right down to all the monsters. But his little clockwork bird is a mite more self sufficient, and a great deal more reliable. He prefers her to all the nightingales and larks that have come and gone, trilling their sweet love songs. He only cares for his steel songbird's lament, because the unbreakable creature is such a delicate balance of her own abilities and his careful winding.  
One day though, he'd like to teach her a couple naughty drinking songs.


	6. tangerine summers

I pecked off another one in less than a month. Aren't you impressed? Of course, my update speed has nothign to do with the fact that I own zip. I'll survive.

* * *

Theme 79 (tangerine summers): Calendar Girl

Nanao considered feeling sorry for Nemu. more than she usually did at least. Matsumoto had cornered her and was trying to impress upon her what an amazing technology department they would have, if they were able to reproduce this novel Earth concept of fruit flavored alcohol.  
"Matsumoto-fukutaichou, we really should be working on ideas for this year's fundraiser."  
"What's wrong with last year's, vice-president-sama?" she shot back.  
"While we sold out almost immediately, acquiring new photos for another calendar would cost more in damages than we could afford."  
"I thought it was because everyone wanted pictures of Byakushi, but no one wanted to get them. He told me never to become one of those women. He sent us that letter-"  
"Yes President. Ideas, ladies?"  
"Well if it's just making money," peeped Hinamori, "a calendar of Matsumoto would be more than enough, right? And then we could use the money to fund something for the Women's Association."  
"I did get lots of cute clothes in the living world and-"  
"I wanna be in it too!"  
"President..."  
"I wanna!!"

"Did you hear? The SWA selling a calendar of themselves!"  
"Yeah, they're going to use the money to fund a social event."  
"You realize they'd probably sell out in a few hours."  
"I just remembered, I have to go back to my room to get my uh... my glasses!"  
"Right, me too!"

"Ne, vice-president-sama, how's the budget looking?"  
"Not to be too pointed about it, but putting you on the cover has kept the money charging in wiping blood of itself."  
Matsumoto shrugged and picked one up.  
"I still don't know how we got you to be Miss July."  
"Because no one is going to know it's me, that's how. Dark hair and pale skin isn't exactly unique here."  
"But I put all that work into making you pretty!" She examined the photograph critically. The figure seemed unaware she would be seen and fantasized over, stretched out on her stomach in a provocative pink bikini. She was propped up on one elbow, hair escaping from behind her ear, holding a segment of fruit to shockingly red lips, eyes closed as if in anticipation. Small characters in the corner declared the 'Tangerine Summer' model was 'just a shinigami'. "You're going to have to watch out for your captain. Knowing him, he's probably taped this picture to the inside of his hat, and is falling asleep somewhere to the thought-"  
"Matsumoto-fukutaichou, I think I hear your captain harassing the gateman. You can leave now, and quietly, or I will detain you here so-"  
Nanao nodded, satisfied, as she was left alone in the room with her budget allocation forms.

"Nanao-chan took off her glasses for her picture."  
Grown men _should not_ be whining like kicked puppies. Not while waving a calendar spread of Soul Society's prettiest shinigami.  
"With all due respect, sir, may I ask what you are complaining about now?" It was a safely vague response, could be taken any number of ways. But until someone asked her outright if that was her, she wouldn't be lying if she implied that she would rather be dead. More dead. Incapable of escaping Kyoraku Shunsui's drunken weeping dead.  
And no one would ever dare to imagine Ise-fukutaichou with scarlet toenails. The SWA at least had sworn on pain of exclusion that they wouldn't tease their VP, nor be in any way the cause of it.  
"I missed seeing Nanao-chan without her glasses. I missed a lot of things it seems. When did you take the picture?"  
"The SWA has been working on our fundraiser for the past month. Sir." She could feel her elbows locking, and her voice would have put Hyourinmaru's icy hiss to shame. Not that either of those warning signs had ever deterred her captain.  
"You should tell me when you do things like this. I might come into office more if you left a note on my desk."   
"A moot point sir, as I have never had any intentions of being a calendar pinup."  
"Doesn't mean you won't again," he replied cheerfully, arranging his calendar to take up the most prominent position on his desk. "By the way," he pulled a tangerine from his sleeve, "There's a pyramid of these addressed to you waiting in the common area."  
"The Eighth is welcome to them. I have no particular fondness for citrus."  
She really should have known 'no particular fondness' would translate to 'yes, captain, please feed me something that will drip all over the paperwork'.


End file.
